


A sparse sprinkling of confetti

by TheMissingMask



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Phillip, BAMF W.D., Blood, Bunnies, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, TGSFanFicFeb2019, Vampires, Whump, alternative uses for Macassar oil, gonna tag at randoms en route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: Attempts to write for some (definitely won't be all) of the prompts for the TGSFanFicFeb 2019





	1. 1 - First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Malley comes to collect Phillip from the hospital after the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with most of the prompts I attempt, this is short and haphazard, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ not sure I can manage much more than that at the moment.

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news?” O’Malley asks as he crosses the ward towards Phillip’s hospital bed.

The younger man raises an eyebrow and sits up, easing himself himself lean back against the wall.

“Bad news?  The circus just burnt down--how can there be--” He starts violently, sitting forward far too quickly for his state of injury, “We didn’t get everyone out?!  Did someone--”

O’Malley quickly raises his hands, “No. No.  Christ, no.”

Phillip lets out a breath and sags back against the wall, “Then what more bad news could there possibly be?”

“Miss Wheeler said you were intending to leave this morning,” The Irishman says instead of responding to the question, handing Phillip a folded pile of clothing, “Where were you intending to go?”

Phillip examines the dark suit with interest, “Who’s is this?  Home, I suppose.”

“Unless you still call yer father’s estate home, I don’t think you will be.”

Phillip looks up sharply, " _What?!_ " 

“You’ve been evicted.  Yer landlord said you missed a rent payment while you've been in here.  Pawned all yer belongings too.”

Phillip swallows, “Please tell me that’s the bad news…”

O’Malley shrugs apologetically.

“So, I don’t…everything I own was in there, or in the circus...  There's nothing left?”

“Almost nothing.” O’Malley pulls a silver hip flask from his jacket, “There’s this.”

Phillip takes the flask with wide eyes. 

“That!  I thought I’d lost it! How did you…” He deadpans, “You stole it." 

“At our first meeting.”

Phillip examines the silver flask, turning it about in his hands, tracing over the patterns.  Once intricate designs, worn down by his own shaking fingers as he drunk from that flask night after night, draining its contents as if his salvation was at the bottom.

“Keep it.” 

He hands the item back up to the other man.

No explanation is needed.

O’Malley understands well the need to let go of past lives, he’s dropped enough of them himself.  That flask is the last remnant of Phillip Carlyle, the wealthy, depressed playwright for whom the only hope of happiness lay in the burn of whisky down his throat.  He slips it in a pocket and claps Phillip gently on the shoulder.

“Best get dressed then.  The others are out seein’ what might be got from the rubble.” 


	2. 5 - Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the uses for Macassar oil
> 
> \---
> 
> WARNING: Nothing explicit, but mentions of nsfw activities

“PT?!”

Phin will never tire of hearing that velvet voice resonate through their apartment.

“What is it, Flip?” He calls back, pouring two cups of coffee, humming contentedly to himself.

“What happened to my Macassar oil?” The younger man emerges into the lounge, brandishing an empty glass vial.

Phineas stares at him in wonder, more specifically, at his rather  _ voluminous _ hair.

“It’s so...fluffy….”

Phillip glares vehemently.

“Is it?  I hadn’t noticed,” he replies dryly, “But it might have something to do with this.”   
He tosses the empty container at his partner, leaving Phineas to fumble to stop it from shattering on their lovely wooden floor.  He stares at it, then up at Phillip, then back to the vial.

“That was...hair oil?”

“The last I had left,” Phillip replies deadpan, arms folding over his chest, “Yes.”

“Oh.”

Phillip raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Well, I couldn’t find the lubricant last night, and…”

“...”

“And I might have used that instead.”

“You...used my Macassar oil as lubricant?”

“You’d be complaining more if I went in dry!” Phineas exclaims defensively.

“Have you seen  _ this _ ?!” Phillip brushes a hand through this very poofy hair for effect, “I absolutely would not!”

“It’s not so bad…”

“ _ Not so bad?! _ ” Phillip throws his arms up in truly uncharacteristic hysteria, “It looks like a moss explosion erupted from my scalp!”

“...moss explosion…”

“I can’t possibly do the show looking like this.  Hell, I can’t even go out. Certainly not to the circus. Can you imagine what they’ll say?  Charles certainly won’t let me live it down, and I can just see--”

“Flip.”

Phineas settles his hand on Phillip’s head, marvelling at the softness for a moment and almost forgetting he had been intending to calm the man.  It really is very soft…

But Phillip is looking up at him with wide, anxious eyes.  Phineas doesn’t understand the man’s obsession with his outward appearance.  He looks beautiful whatever his state of dress or undress, however dishevelled his hair, or sweaty his skin.

But, Phineas doesn’t need to understand.

It matters to Phillip, so it matters to him.

He pulls the younger man into his arms, resting his chin on top of his fluffy disarrayed hair.  Phillip exhales against his chest, the tension easing from his shoulders within the safety of that embrace.

Over the top of Phillip’s head, Phineas can make out a glass container glinting on the coffee table.  The very container he had been looking for last night when he landed instead upon Phillip’s oil. A pleased smile crosses his lips.

“I think I found a solution.”

 


	3. 6 - "Are you sure?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-divergent AU -- There was no fire.

It takes three days to find Phillip.

Phineas is there for none of them.

The first day is spent with his wife and daughters, attempting to make up for his leaving them to go on tour.  The second, he tries in vain to convince Charity that the Jenny Lind story was a fabrication, and that he would be able to work things out with their home, that she doesn’t need to leave, that she please wouldn’t leave him.  The third is spent sitting alone in an empty house that he no longer owns, drowning himself in whiskey and the happy memories of a life now ruined.

It is only on the following day that Phineas collects himself enough to remember that he has a circus to run.  It is on that day, midway through a cold and sunless morning, that he is told by a stern-eyed O’Malley that Phillip has been found.  Phineas’ confusion must have been evident, for the former thief promptly and with no small measure of solemn disappointment, adds that his protege had been missing for three days.

Phillip had vanished after the show on the same evening Phineas returned from tour.  He had been found this morning by some children playing out near the docks, and word only reached the circus because one of the police summoned to the scene had himself been to the show and recognised the torn remnants of the ringmaster’s coat.

O'Malley passes on what information he has.  Phillip had been severely beaten, and was found half-frozen to death.  He might have been lying there for the full three days, might have been dumped that morning.  The police couldn’t say. They had no suspects, and little inclination to investigate further.  Everyone in the circus knew it had to be the protesters who had been seen lingering in the stands as the audience had begun to dissipate that night.

Phineas goes immediately to the public hospital where O’Malley tells him Phillip was taken.  Anne is already there, tears in her eyes and Phillip’s hand in hers. She is urged by her ever-present, ever-supportive brother to move away when Phineas stands awkwardly beside the bed, himself caught between leaving the hospital and joining the vigil.

The siblings walk silently past their ringmaster, out of the ward, and Phineas is left alone with his apprentice.

Phillip has nothing to say to the man who abandoned him.

He lays still and silent, breathing shallow and face calm in the peace supplied by unconsciousness.  Phineas watches him, guilt twisting in his stomach at the sickening sight. Bruised lips and black eyes, deep gashes, grazes, broken bones.  These are the fruits of Phineas Barnum’s labours, laid in perfect clarity before him.

Phineas wants to take up Phillip’s hand, no doubt still warm from the comforting touch Anne had offered, but he’s not sure what right he would have to do so.

He leaves without so much as touching the white hospital garb that covers Phillip’s discoloured skin.

Anne re-enters as he departs, and W.D. gives Phineas an apologetic glance, as if all this is his fault.  As if W.D. had any blame to take in the matter. Phineas is halted by that look, left staring back at the siblings as they continue into the ward.  He stares in confusion until a doctor clears his throat and he remembers that he was meant to be leaving.

He walks the streets alone for several hours, cutting a meandering path back towards the circus.

Charity's gone, and with her his daughters.  Jenny’s gone, and with her all Phineas’ investments.  Phillip’s not gone, but with broken ribs and severe head wounds, there’s every chance that could change at any moment.

The circus is all Phineas has left.

He knows he must pour his effort into that.

The troupe do not, at first, forgive him for his abandonment, and Phineas cannot blame them.  Lettie is very clear in stating that he should have been there to help deal with the protesters, that Phillip never stood a chance against them alone.  But she is also the first to forgive him because everything that was done was exactly what they’d expect from P.T. Barnum. Reckless pursuit of some course whether it led to ruin or not.  This had led to ruin, but the circus still stood and the performers remained.

Within a few hours, the forgiveness seemed unanimous.

O'Malley and Phineas worked tirelessly together to boost sales and fill seats.  The protesters were diminished at first, and then a couple came back. Not so angry now, but rather more unsettled by the re-emergence of the show's foremost ringmaster, and the clear demonstration that despite their best efforts the show would go on.

Phineas doesn’t have them arrested. There is no proof that it was them who hurt Phillip.  When the younger man wakes - because he _will_ wake - he can identify them if he chooses. Phineas knows he will not. Phillip is sympathetic towards most every person below his former station. Some sense of guilt in the knowledge that he had contributed, even indirectly, to their poverty and desperation means that he will always forgive their sins as the acts of desperate, broken men.

Even without an arrest, the protesters are less vocal after Phineas returns.  They remain a yelling hoard of maffickers, but they do not enter the circus itself.

The show continues running, but ticket sales do not suffice to fill in the financial deficit left by the failed tour. Phineas' home is gone and most of his valuable possessions pawned just to pay the performers' wages. He is given a place to sleep on O’Malley’s sofa, and infinitely grateful for it, but it must only be temporary. He needs to figure a way out of this before he takes everyone down with him and they all end up destitute together.

Phineas murmurs these troubles to his apprentice during his daily visit to the hospital.  He’s there all morning, sitting at Phillip’s bedside, watching the unresponsive form until a church bell strikes for midday and he knows he must go to the circus.  Anne takes up the vigil after the show each night, always accompanied by another of the troupe. None of them walk alone anymore. None are willing to risk another of their self-built family to the hands of the protesters.  It’s a rule Phineas would have enforced himself had it not already naturally been adopted.

After over a week of dwindling financial reserves and desperate attempts to figure out how to make ends meet, Phineas still has no solution and he knows the circus cannot last much longer.  He’s experienced with the numbers, less rigorous at times than Phillip tended to be, but he has no shortage of practice. He knows that they could manage one more round of wages, perhaps at a push another week of shows if they sell out tickets.  After that, something was going to have to give, and he’s already given up everything he can to get this far.

Phineas sits at Phillip’s bedside that morning, watching his eyelashes lay unmoving upon his cheeks.  The swelling over them has gone down, leaving his face a better semblance of its former beauty, now merely discoloured with an array of deep gashes and expansive bruises.  He rests a hand gently on the sheets covering the broken form, ready to begin his one-sided discourse.

Phillip’s brows furrow the instant that contact is made.

His eyes squeeze more tightly shut.

He winces, groans lightly, and suddenly Phineas is faced with hazy glimpses of brilliant blue orbs staring in confusion back at him. 

“You’re here.” Phillip’s voice cracks, “ _Why?_ ”

The question burns.  It brands Phineas with all the shame and guilt he deserves.

_Why?_

The answer should be obvious.  Because he _cares_.  Doesn’t Phillip see that?  Doesn’t he know that?

“I’m so sorry Phillip.” Phineas says because he can think of nothing else, and because it’s the truest thing his mind can supply without him baring his soul to the younger man.  He takes Phillip’s hand instinctively, but immediately lets go when a sharp hiss leaves his chapped and bruised lips. The hand is broken, the fingers shattered. It is the same for both hands.  His feet too, the doctor had said.

“What?” Philip asks eventually, and Phineas isn’t sure exactly what is being asked, so he waits until the other eventually seems to realise this and muster the strength to clarify, “The tour.”

“Jenny cancelled.” Phineas replies with a heavy heart.  He knows what this information will do to Phillip. Sure enough, with a disconcertingly long delay, the significance of the statement dawns on the younger man, and he starts suddenly enough to aggravate his injuries. He groans and curls in on himself, tears spilling from his eyes.

Phineas can only watch with pity as the man fights what must be agonising reminders of his numerous broken bones.

“She what?” Phillip manages to grit out at last, still hunched over on his side with his back to Phineas. His eyes are barely open, but they are alert despite the pain, and they look back to watch Phineas intently. 

“She cancelled the tour.  I’m sorry Phillip. I lost everything.”

“Why?”

It’s a question Phineas was prepared for.

“I misled her.” He replies, and he knows Phillip catches the meaning.  He had spent time with them both, had no doubt seen the woman’s growing affection, and even perhaps tried to protect Phineas from it by his efforts to prevent the tour, but he had not forced his intervention.  Phineas wishes he had.

“I’m sorry.” Phillip shifts onto his back again and twitches his fingers to graze Phineas’ sleeve.

 “Apologies are my job, Phil.” Phineas replies with a sad smile, “I let everyone down.  And now, because of it, I can’t even afford…”

“I can.” Phillip interrupts with a surprising amount of force when every word before had been spoken in a harsh whisper.

“What?”

 “I own...ten percent of the...show.” Phillip explains hoarsely, trying to shift closer to a seated position in the bed, but failing to do little more than burden himself with fresh waves of pain.  He breathes through them. Phineas waits.

“Knowing who I was working with, I...had the good sense to…” Phillip breathes heavily as he forces himself up to sit against the bed frame.  Phineas hurries to help, rearranging pillows and easing Phillip against them.

“...to take my cut weekly.”

“Phillip, I can’t ask you to--”

“The show must go on, P.T.”

Phillip’s eyes lock with his, and Phineas knows the younger man is earnest.  He doesn't have to ask the question, _"Are you sure?"_.  The answer is in that resolute gaze.

“If you can help me...to the bank, I have...enough to cope with the deficit.  At least to...pay wages and upkeep until we start...seeing...profit again.”

Phineas’ soft smile at his partner’s kindness breaks into a broad, elated grin within seconds.

“We can do better than that.”

“P.T., I know that look…” Phillip mutters apprehensively.  Phineas really can’t blame him.

“I can get land out by the docks for almost nothing.” He begins excitedly, “We sell the museum.  It’s a prime location, and a lot of business owners would pay good money for that spot. Then, all we need is a tent.”

Phillip is, understandably, dubious.  But his blue eyes shine with a sense of excitement.

It’s a gamble, it’s crazy, and Phillip is more than a little bit addicted to Phineas Barnum’s personal brand of crazy.

 


	4. 7 - Crossover/AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampires (so WARNING there be blood, but nothing too graphic, although there is sort of death i.e. pre-vampirism death)

Time slows.  Every motion seems almost at a standstill, each second a minute, as if the whole world, everything in existence, has paused to turn and look.  To watch as the man buries that blade to its hilt in Phillip’s throat.  _ Man. _  He is no man.  A beast, a monster.  Phineas doesn’t hear his own scream.  He doesn’t hear himself cry out Phillip’s name.  He doesn’t register his body moving. He doesn’t feel that beast’s neck beneath his hands as he snaps it like rotten wood.  He does hear the weakening pulse of Phillip’s heart. He does smell the rich metallic stench of his blood ebbing from his body.  He does feel Phillip’s hand desperately clutching at his shirt.

“P.T…” There’s no sound to Phil’s voice.  It’s just breath. Barely that. The shaping of his lips around those two letters.

Phineas strokes his hair with one hand, tears falling freely from his eyes.  He never wanted this. He never wanted to do this to Phillip. This kind-hearted young man.  A  _ good _ man.  So much potential, hope for a real life.  A wife, children of his own…

But Phineas is selfish.  He cannot bear to lose Phillip.

He tears his shirt sleeve, rolling it up to the elbow, and slits his wrist.

“Drink.” He orders, pressing the wrist to Phillip’s lips.  Not giving him the choice. He can feel Phillip swallow the blood, unable to move to struggle away.  Or, perhaps, because he wants it. Perhaps he knows.

Phineas waits until he is sure Phillip has swallowed enough.

He pulls his wrist back, and with that same hand yanks the knife still protruding from Phillip’s throat, only to draw the fine blade across his windpipe.

There is no sound as Phillip Carlyle dies.  He can draw no final breath and have no last word.  The life simply fades from his eyes as the air drains from his lungs and the blood ebbs from his veins.

Phineas stays at his side, one hand stroking through his hair until he has separated all the oil-bound strands and it hangs as limp and lifeless as Phillip’s limbs.  The sand of the ring beneath them is saturated with Phillip’s blood. There’ll be so much to clean up in the morning. Questions will be asked. The corpse of the man who instigated all this has long since grown cold mere feet away.

As Phineas sees the slash across Phil’s throat start to knit itself back together, he lifts the young man into his arms and carries him to the office.  He knows what comes next. The days of thirst and agony and confusion as senses heighten and blood lust threatens to overcome the mind and body.

He was in a nest when his transformation happened.  They had created the space for it. Phillip would have to make do with a novice instructor and a circus tent.  But Phineas won’t leave his side. He won’t let Phillip suffer through that alone. Nor will he force the new vampire to kill.  Phillip might be condemned to a life overshadowed by primal instincts to drink the life force of all he sees, but Phineas will not allow his hands to be bloodied by the desire.

Like all of Phineas’ promises, it is one he is ultimately fated to break.


	5. 11 - "Left or right?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of W.D. and Phillip companionship. Also, slight AU in that Phineas and Phillip are co-ringmasters at the circus i.e. Phineas never left, or he promptly got bored and returned. Take your pick! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> WARNING: Some violence, but nothing excessively graphic
> 
> \---

"W.D.!" Phillip hisses, kicking out one bare foot towards the shadowed form of his companion's leg, "W.D.!  Are you awake?"

"Ow!  Yes, Carlyle.  You could have asked that _before_ kicking me!" Comes the disgruntled reply, "I take it you can't move your arms either."

Phillip tugs futilely at the coarse rope binding his hands to the metal pole at his back, "Not in any remotely productive manner."

"You got any idea what's going on?"

"Aside from being kidnapped by protestors, very little."

"It was the same guys from before.  Who started the fire."

Phillip nods even though he's not sure W.D. can see it in the thickly shadowed space, "I'm inclined to agree.  Two of them, at least. Unfortunately, that doesn't go very far towards explaining the nature of our current predicament."

"They probably want to torture and kill us." W.D. helpfully offers, earning himself a pointed, and probably unseen, scowl from his companion.

"And they call me the pessimistic one..."

"No, they call you the moody one.   _I'm_ pessimistic."

"Really?" Phillip smirks sarcastically, "I hadn't noticed."

"Shut it, Carlyle."

"Unfortunately, you may be right." Phillip turns serious again, "P.T. said that they had been arrested, but they must have been released.  I can't imagine you or I are high on their list of favourable acquaintances."

"We're pretty low on that list for most people, in case you hadn't noticed."

Phillip sighs, "It's not as bad as it used to be."

"Says a man who is tied up awaiting a pounding from representatives of this fine city."

"This is an exception."

The sharp slam of the door against the wall cuts off any further exchange.  Somewhere beyond the now open door there must be some gas lamps lit, the dim light from them now filtering into the room, partially blocked by a large figure now standing in the doorway.  As he takes a staggering step inside, he loses the anonymity supplied by his silhouette, and Phillip can recognise clearly the ringleader of the protesters who had started the fire. The man is standing over him within two strides.  There’s a half-drunk bottle of whiskey in his hand, the stench of it filling the room. He takes a deep gulp from it, eyes never leaving those of his hostage. Phillip refuses to look away. _Don’t show fear_ seems to be the mantra replaying in his head, although he has no idea where that advice came from.  It certainly did little to help him in their previous confrontation.

Phillip is forced to suppress a shudder as the man crouches before him, feet straddling his outstretched legs, breath sour with the stench of the cheap alcohol.  Phillip turns away instinctively, but the other man instantly reaches out a calloused hand and grabs Phillip's chin, roughly jerking his head up so their eyes meet.

"You caused me a lot of trouble, boy." His voice is slurred with the alcohol, "We can barely get jobs now 'cus of you."

"I didn't force you to set the circus on fire." Phillip replies calmly, prodding W.D.'s foot with his toes in a warning for his companion to do _nothing._

After being the one who threw the punch that started a fight that ultimately led to the fire, W.D. had become less eager to engage with antagonistic parties.  He'd got control of his anger towards them, come to accept that they'd always be there, and become satisfied with being part of a group that would hopefully slowly diminish their numbers by simply _being_.

Right now, Phillip is severely hoping that new sense of calm will hold.

"Wouldn't have had to set anythin' on fire if you an' your freaks hadn't been there."

"You didn’t _have_ to set anything on fire with us there.  We were doing you no harm." Phillip mutters, taking advantage of the man's slightly looser grip to turn his head away.  Evidently that action is not what the man wants. He immediately grabs the back of Phillip's hair and yanks his head round to face him once more.  The ringmaster hisses in pain, but keeps his eyes locked with those of the other man. He jabs W.D. in the foot again.

"See, here's the thing, boy." Phillip is starting to get really irritated with the nickname, "We can't get any work.  That's your fault. So, you're gonna help us get the money we deserve."

"That seems improbable."

The grip on his hair tightens.

Phillip doesn't break his gaze.

"See, we reckon your handler’s gonna pay a pretty fine sum for your return." The man snarls.

Phillip’s ready to argue, but it’s a lie.  Phineas would pay every penny of his savings to ensure the safety of any and all of the family they had created.  He knows he’s included in that sum. Still, lying seems like it’s the best option he has in the moment.

“The only thing you’ll get out of this is another few years in jail.  Barnum won’t--”

A strong hand is suddenly closing around his throat, cutting off what was to follow.  Blunt fingers curl inwards, crushing like a vice, while the thick palm presses his throat into the pole behind.  Phillip struggles at the bonds, tugging even though the rope tears at his skin. The world grows dark at the edges, a strange hazy sensation drifting from the fringes of consciousness.  Phillip's eyes fall shut.

"He can't get your money if he's dead!"

W.D.'s voice cuts through the haze, but the pressure against his neck doesn't relent.

Phillip can't think straight. He tries to force himself to focus on something, anything.  And then it strikes him. So obvious. He moves his left leg a little inwards and, with as much energy as he can manage in his fading consciousness, he jerks his leg sharply upwards into the man's groin.  At the first blow, the man grunts in pain, but it is the second, executed with a slight bend in the knee to better the angle, that does it. The man releases Phillip, leaving him hunched forward, gasping for air, and stumbles as he tries to get up.  W.D. shoots a leg out, tripping the man, and immediately drives his heel into the man's temple. After that, their captor doesn't stir.

"Carlyle." W.D. hisses, "Carlyle.  Hey, talk to me!"

Phillip blinks away the stars from his vision, frowning as the world seems to drift uncertainly around him.  He takes stock of the situation. The unconscious man, and them as bound as before. The man's whisky bottle has fallen from his hands.

"Kick the bottle over." Phillip rasps.

The bottle had rolled towards W.D.  Frowning in confusion, W.D. obeys, nudging the bottle towards him with one foot.

Letting out a softly despairing sigh at the loss of perfectly acceptable alcohol, and the slightest apprehension about how much this was probably going to hurt, Phillip raises his leg and slams his calf down against the bottle, shattering it and sending the amber liquid pooling across the floor. Against the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he barely feels the sharp sting of glass embedding in his flesh, although the sight of his own blood mixing with the whisky is perhaps a little unnerving.  Using that same leg, he twists and manages to scrape an assortment of shards towards the pole and within reach of his fingers if he strains hard enough against the ropes.  He catches a large shard in between his index and middle finger, manoeuvres it into a better grip, and begins to saw away at the ropes.

There are footsteps outside now.  But no voices.

Just footsteps growing closer and closer.

Phillip still hasn't cut through the rope.

He increases his pace, but a shadow is already cutting through the glow from the gas lamps beyond their room.

The glass slips from his bloody fingers to the ground.

Phillip feels for a fresh shard, takes it up, and begins slicing again.

The ties loosen, just slightly.

Not enough.

Another man, stockier, angrier, steps in.

He looks down at his comrade, then at the two hostages.

He steps forward.

And promptly face-plants over W.D.'s outstretched leg.

The man snarls, whirls on W.D., prepares to strike, and howls in pain as Phillip buries the broken top of the bottle in his shoulder.

The man recovers himself after a moment, just enough to growl and spin right into Phillip's fist.

He goes down with a thud, landing on his comrade in a heap of limbs and alcohol intoxication and an increasing amount of blood.  Phillip dodges round the pile up and uses a new shard to slice open W.D.'s ropes.

"Let's go." He says, helping the other up.

"Wait!  They took our shoes!"

"And?  They'll take more than that if we wait around for them to wake up!"

"I really like those shoes!" WD complains as Phillip grabs his wrist and pulls him out the door, "You owe me shoes."

"Mine won't fit you." Phillip replies absently, peering round the end of the corridor they had run out into.  One direction was flickering with the gas lights from before, the other is narrow and dark.

"Idiot." W.D. glares, "You can buy me new shoes."

"Fine!  I'll buy you two pairs if we make it out of here alive."

'Here' seems to be a large shell of a building with winding corridors linking open, spacious rooms that suggests some sort of hospital or other institution.  The barred windows filtering in the moonlight scream asylum.

Phillip shudders at the thought.

"We have to get out of here." He mutters to himself, although W.D. answers him in an equally hushed agreement.

They hurry down a long corridor towards a door at the far end, larger than those they had seen before.  Large enough to pass as an entrance. A bright moon shines through the barred windows, offering a small amount of illumination, but even still they stumble repeatedly on detritus and scattered old instruments and furniture.  W.D. falls suddenly, letting out a loud cry that echoes horribly off the bare walls.

Phillip spins and crouches beside him.

"What is it?" He asks, hearing the pained gasps coming from the other man.

"My leg." W.D. grits the words out through clenched teeth.

Phillip glances back at the outstretched limb and instantly wishes he hadn’t.  The foot is hanging limp at an unnatural angle to the rest of the leg, the ankle very, very definitely broken.

"Is it bad?" W.D. asks, eyes clenched shut with pain.

"No.  Just a sprain." Phillip lies as the voices begin to reverberate off the walls behind them, "Get on my back."

"What?!"

"Get on my back.  You can't walk on that leg, and we need to go.   _Now._ "

W.D. stares at him in disbelief.

"Three pairs." He demands, a hint of playfulness in his agonised tone.

Phillip gawks back at him, "You're serious?!  Never mind. Yes, three pairs, now get on."

With an expression that combines pain with resigned despair, W.D. obliges, moving uneasily to clasp his arms around Phillip's shoulders and allow himself to be hoisted onto the smaller man's back.  As soon as his charge is stable, Phillip runs for the door, ignoring the pained hisses every movement draws from his friend. Ignoring the sharp waves of agony springing from his feet and calves as the glass embedded in his flesh tears new lacerations with the motion of his muscles against it.

They reach the door with the voices of their captors still distant echoes in their wake.  Phillip kicks it open and dashes out of the building.

He doesn’t recognise the area.  They’re nowhere near the circus, that much is clear, and certainly not in the vicinity of his old, high-brow haunts.

“Left or right?” W.D. asks in his hear, voice strained.  Phillip looks around them again, almost breaking into hysterical laughter with the relief of what he sees.

“Left.” He breaths, grinning broadly.

Never before has he been so grateful for Phineas Barnum’s flair for the extravagant.  The circus is visible even from a distance, even beyond several rows of houses and industrial buildings, courtesy of the bright spotlights the man insisted they shine out every evening.

It is a beacon visible from all places in New York.

It is the guiding light to lead Phillip home.

It looks far away, but he knows they can get there.

He begins running at once.  It must be either extremely late or extremely early, or a largely unoccupied area of the city, because the streets are almost entirely dark and empty, save for the occasional drunk or opium addict half-blacked out on the cold ground.

Phillip runs.  He runs and tries not to hear W.D.'s laboured breathing.  He runs and pretends his own lungs and legs aren’t burning.

He runs until he almost quite literally collides with Phineas Barnum standing at the edge of the tent, looking out over the docks with an expression of deep apprehension on his handsome features.

"Phillip?!" Phineas cries, arms coming out to steady the other man before the near-collision sends him sprawling backwards.  He notices only a moment later the man on his back.

"Ankle's broken." Phillip pants, nodding towards W.D., "Needs a doctor."

The older ringmaster nods and hurries into the tent, coming back out with an entourage of the troupe.

"Broken?!" W.D. hisses as several members of the circus gather round to help, "You said it was sprained!"

"That may have been marginally inaccurate an assessment." Phillip replies, stumbling forward when someone suddenly lifts W.D. from his back.  Phineas catches him, expression darkening the instant he feels Phillip’s bloody hands dampen his sleeves.

“P.T.  I’m fine.” Phillip interrupts before Phineas can speak, “Make sure W.D. gets a doctor.”

For a moment it looks as though Phineas will remain to argue the point, but with a final stern glance at his partner, he turns and runs back towards the tent after the others.  With the sudden loss of support, Phillip staggers towards a pile of sandbags discarded haphazardly for some reason he'd need to worry about later. He sinks to the floor as his legs give way beneath him.

Left alone like that, Phillip lets his head drop back against the soft canvas and breathes in deep the cool night air, shutting his eyes as exhaustion and pain creep up on him at last.  He is forced to return to awareness by a tapping at his right hand. Opening his eyes, Phillip finds Charles taking a seat on Phineas' discarded top hat beside him. He hands Phillip a bottle of whiskey.

Phillip takes a long, indulgent drag from the bottle, hissing at the pleasant burn of the alcohol down his throat.

"Have I ever told you that you're my favourite human being, Charles?" The ringmaster says, laying his head back and closing his eyes again, "Admittedly, the bar is really quite low."

Charles glares and snatches the bottle back, "I hate you.  You know that, right?"

Phillip grins at the brilliant lights above him, "I'm wildly aware."

  



	6. 25 - Last Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bunnies!

Phillip couldn’t keep the contented smile from his lips as he walked to work on the first day of spring.  Or, at least, the first day of that year that really _felt_ like spring.

The sky was clear, the air crisp.  But the brilliant sun beaming down even at this early hour held the promise of a mild day to come.  As he approached the circus and the clearer, salty air that seemed to surround it, he closed his eyes and embraced the feeling of the sea breeze on his skin.  Already loosening his scarf, he walked towards the office he and Phineas shared.

He had barely taken a step inside when his smile faltered.

“For God’s sake, P.T.”

The words escaped his lips in a hushed grumble as he stepped carefully further into the room.  He removed his scarf, hat, and coat, forcing himself to remain calm and composed in the face of this latest calamity-to-be. Finally, outer clothing deposited neatly on his half of the desk, he turned to address the problem at hand.

Or, rather, the problem frolicking happily around his feet.

“A dozen white rabbits.”

Phillip nearly jumped onto one of those rabbits as Phineas’ voice seemed to emerge from nowhere.  Phillip was starting to believe the man had somehow bent physical space to his will, allowing him to materalise anywhere at any moment.  In that moment, he had opted to materialise onto their couch, where he lounged and happily watching the fluffy white rabbits hop about the floor.

“A baker’s dozen.” Phillip replied flatly after recovering himself, “There are thirteen.”

“The only dozen that counts.”

Phillip ignored the confident statement about the correctness of numerical inaccuracy in favour of the more important issue.

“ _Why_ are there thirteen white rabbits in our office?”

“Why?!” Phineas sat up straight, looking affronted, “Flip, we discussed this at the last meeting.”

“Did we though..?”

“Yes,” Phineas continued hotly, “I distinctly recall putting forward the motion that we acquire ten or so white rabbits to appeal to the younger members of our audience.  And you made no objection.”

“Was that perhaps because I was not there at the last meeting?” Phillip glared over at him as two of the rabbits started to clamber on his right shoe.

“It’s not my fault you are incapable of maintaining an adequate state of physical health.”

Phillip rolled his eyes and picked up the two bunnies, “I’m sending a representative next time I fall ill.”

“Just wait.” Phineas beamed, “It’ll be fantastic.  I have an act planned out for them already. We’re going to have to make some tiny top hats and train them to do a few tricks first, but they seem very intelligent - cunning at the very least - I’m sure it’ll be easy enough.”

Phillip sighed, smiling fondly and walking over to deposit the two balls of fluff on Phineas’ lap, lingering to place a soft kiss against his temple.

“If I didn’t love you so much…” He began, but there was no finish to that aborted sentence.  The very notion was too impossible for Phillip to imagine how it should end.

So he instead met Phin’s lips in a chaste kiss and sat beside him, taking another bunny from the floor into his arms, “I suppose we need thirteen names now.”

  



End file.
